


Tired of this Human Duet

by hunted



Series: Trans Geralt [2]
Category: The Witcher (TV)
Genre: Adult Characters (Aged 21 or Older), Age Difference, Anal Sex, Attempted Sexual Assault (implied), Bisexual Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Bisexual Male Character, Bottom Jaskier | Dandelion, Bullying (mentioned), Canon-Typical Child Death (mentioned), Canon-Typical Misogyny, Canon-Typical Violence, Consensual Kink, Dirty Talk, Dom/sub Play, Dominance, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Hand Over Mouth, Heterosexual Sex, I can't believe that's not a proper tag ngl, Loss of Virginity, Lovers, M/M, Not Beta Read, Past Child Death (mentioned), Power Dynamics, Public Sex, Romance, Rough Sex, Slut Shaming, Stranger Sex, Submission, Top Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Trans Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Trans Male Character, Transformation, Trial of the Grasses (mentioned), Virginity, author is ftm, not by our leading man geralt though, that's the good shit
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 02:54:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26209759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hunted/pseuds/hunted
Summary: The life of a witcher was destined to be fraught.His, particularly....Geralt tries to figure out love, sex, and desire. Title taken fromAnimal Impulses by IAMX.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Female Character(s)
Series: Trans Geralt [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1903393
Comments: 22
Kudos: 79





	1. Chapter 1

There had been others like him in the past. Not many, but some.

The Trial of the Grasses changed more than just appearance, more than just strength. The torturous test brought about the true manifestation of a child’s soul, in the instance that it didn’t kill him. Geralt, young but fierce, stood upon a mountain of dead-eyed corpses, head raised high where others collapsed into fits of coughing, bleeding, vomiting, and into eventual stillness. Even at that young age, he carried the shadows of dead boys in his eyes, all the righteous fury of an abandoned child bred to become comfortable with death.

The other boys had looked upon him with disdain and cruelty, small hands quick to punish and point, accusations of perversion and unnaturality shot forth like poisoned arrows. The teachers did not speak up in defence of the child, certain that this punishment would harden him, help him learn pain in ways the others could not. They saw it as inevitable, that he should be so targeted. He had been a target from birth, an outcast even among outcasts, his soul sitting uncomfortably in a body that was not his. Visenna had been disgusted with his strangeness, with the anger that burst forth from such a small frame, tiny fists tearing glittering dresses to pieces. She could not understand, refused to understand, what she had given birth to.

But Vesemir knew.

Vesemir had seen a child like this before, albeit one of less strength, and more sorrow. That female-born child had not survived the cruelty of the world, had not been able to embody such maleness in defiance of everything else. Vesemir’s shovel had felt particularly heavy as he buried that small body, regret filling his mouth with the taste of ash and copper. He’d taken a chance. Betting with children’s lives never got any easier.

But he saw something different in the eyes of young Geralt, saw a frustrated determination to _persist,_ to push back against an unwanted birthright- no matter the cost. The first night he allowed the child a place at Kaer Morhen, a blade went missing. He found Geralt sitting on the floor, surrounded by piles of hair, his scalp visible where he had cut tufts particularly short. The child had looked up at Vesemir, fire in his gaze to rival that of a viper-eyed warrior.

“I’m a boy,” he’d stated, voice high with youth but heavy with conviction, “I’m not a girl.”

Vesemir had leaned against the doorway, curious and pleased. “Will you prove it?”

Geralt had stood, little feet concealed by straggly piles of brown. He’d clenched his fists and nodded. Like this, young and still androgynous, he didn’t appear different from the other boys at all. But he _was_ different. He was stronger. Angrier. Crueller, and kinder. Older than his years.

“Yes,” he promised, words foretelling lifetimes of fame and infamy, “Yes.”

Training was not easy. The other boys attempted to hurt him, hold him down and examine him, see the evidence of his differences. Geralt scratched, clawed, punched, bit, and slammed his forehead into the shocked faces of his attackers, leaving bloody noses and weeping eyes in his wake. They could not match his brutality, could not imprison this child where he did not wish to be held. Vesemir swallowed down the impulse to help and protect, more fond of Geralt than he had been of any other lad. He let the boy fight, let him harden his impulses before he even knew adulthood or the touch of a lover, let him manifest as a weapon with eyes, breaths, and deft fingers.

The Trial of the Grasses would not succeed if the boy was not male. He needed to solidify his understanding of himself, needed to defend it at all costs.

As it turned out, Vesemir's instincts had been right. Geralt lay on his back when the time finally came, all the colour leached from his skin, pale as death, sweat dripping from him as if he had been sat out in the rain for an hour. He flapped around like a puppet being toyed with, agony jerking him this way and that, strange sounds escaping his taut throat. Blood poured down his face, turning his teeth pink, vomit smelling of acid and rotting fruit.

On the seventh day, something happened to him which had never occurred in all Vesemir's years as a teacher.

As though possessed by some kind of magic, mutating beyond what any other human had experienced, Geralt began to thrash and choke once again, just as Vesemir had been hoping the symptoms were easing. He wailed like a tortured, broken wraith, as if he had already crossed over to the other side and was protesting his pilgrimage to a lifeless desert. But he wasn't dead, nor was he fully alive. His lashes fluttered, eyes opening and closing, arms and legs spasming.

"The fuck is happening," a fellow teacher whispered, to which Vesemir responded, as rapt as he was horrified;

"Shut up."

Geralt's scalp seemed to glow, tendrils of white snaking through his dark hair as though he were rapidly ageing before their very eyes, transforming in a way nobody had expected. He coughed as if expelling a virus from him, a splatter of blood flying up into the air and dotting the soft skin of his cheeks. Though his head rapidly appeared pale as an elderly man's, his body remained young, untouched by the years. Transfixed, Vesemir watched gold bleed from iris to pupil, until nothing remained but a snake's gaze, fixed upon the ceiling as a corpse might stare. His white hair was like a halo around his head, his eyes like gemstones.

"Come on," he whispered, "Come on, Geralt."

The boy should have been complete, should have been fully transformed. But it was not over. Softness seemed to leave his body, the length of his arms extending and thinning, a whine of agony trickling from his lips as bones stretched and cracked, reforming to create the boy he knew himself to be. With the speechless amazement of men, and the clinical detachment of a witchers, Vesemir and his colleagues watched as Geralt's pants became taut where previously there had been no flesh. They realised rather quickly what had happened, though they could not offer an explanation for it. Vesemir had come to appreciate the unseen forces; the things he could name, and would not dare to examine too closely.

He simply felt proud.

***

Years later, Geralt thought back to his transformation, to the heavy-eyed elder who taught him love with the cruellest of hands. The love of a father, of a teacher.

He thought of the life he had lived before, a mother whose face was blurred from time, but never happy. The way she had looked at him; as though he was a curse, a freak, a mistake. He had killed her daughter, committed a grave sin just by existing. He still had nightmares about the Trial of Grasses, about a world tinted with green nebulas that flayed skin from meaty flesh, but he preferred that to the word _girl,_ to the life which he would have been living otherwise. He remembered clinging to himself by his fingernails, straining just to live, screaming with tiny lungs that he wasn't who she demanded he be. He remembered small fists clenching around his wrists, crowds of boys holding him down and trying to discern _what he was._

He thought about all this as he lay beside a pretty-haired poet, dark curls hanging down beside beseeching eyes. Jaskier watched him intently and eventually moved on top of him, crawling to seek his attention, his smaller body entirely naked as it slid against Geralt's. The witcher continued to gaze into the distance, head turned against the pillow. Jaskier arched his hips to seek mutual pleasure, grinding his cock against full, hardened flesh. He ducked his face down and kissed Geralt's neck, lips as soft and tender as a woman's might be. Still, Geralt looked into the distance, and thought about the body he'd once been cursed with. He thought about telling Jaskier what he'd once been, but knew the boy could not contain his insatiable need to gossip, would weave such delicate truths into ballads.

Geralt could not trust anybody with his past.

Heedless of Geralt's disinterest, or perhaps spurred on by it, Jaskier kissed him harder, undulating his body fluidly. Geralt's eyes slipped closed as grudging arousal sparked in his gut, boiling there and growing, his cock very aware of Jaskier's feminine appeal.

"So lost and quiet," Jaskier murmured, the wetness of his mouth leaving a shine against the hollow of Geralt's throat. He lifted his face upward, perching his chin on Geralt's sternum and pouting dramatically. Geralt lazily lifted a hand, placed it against the curve of Jaskier's spine.

"Your only worry," Geralt mumbled quietly, "is that I pay attention to you."

Jaskier shrugged, petulant and young as ever.

"Do you wonder what I think of? Why I'm so lost?"

"Of course I do," the poet snapped, drawing one knee up to seek further leverage, angling their bodies together even as he spoke so childishly, "I wonder constantly. But I know not to ask, for you'll give no answer. So, let's fuck. The best way forward, wouldn't you agree?"

Geralt considered that for a scant moment, then lifted himself suddenly up, enough that he could flip them over, pinning Jaskier beneath him. The boy looked up at him, gasping on his back, eyes wide. Geralt touched the side of his face, smiling in amusement.

"I could tear you to pieces," he mused, "I could kill you in an instant. How weak you are."

Jaskier flushed prettily, as though the idea turned him on. Geralt knew that it did.

"You wouldn't dare," he said, voice wavering as though he wasn't certain.

Geralt lifted his legs, taking hold of him below the knees. He leaned down to slot their mouths together, kissing the younger man hotly, as calm as Jaskier was desperate. The boy held onto him, thin arms around bulky shoulders, an unscarred chest against a broad, war-hardened form. Geralt swayed his hips slowly, unhurried, knowing Jaskier sought immediate penetration. When his cock did find purchase, Jaskier whimpered, breached so slowly and so intimately.

"Ah," he whispered, "Geralt,"

Their breaths mingled and mixed, both their eyes closed as they tasted each other, delighted in the patient, slow stretch of sex. Jaskier groaned and spread his legs wider, eager for it.

"Slut," Geralt told him, his voice lacking in any genuine cruelty.

With a laugh, Jaskier kissed him, humming delightedly as Geralt moved deeper inside his willing body. He wasn't offended. In fact, he seemed to pursue the ideal.

Geralt fucked him as though he sought to tear down the bard's defences with incremental, punishing intimacy. Their bed creaked, Jaskier's breaths becoming heavier with every inward push. Servants knew now to disturb them, by now. Geralt would ruin him freely, uncaring who heard his boy crying out for relief and mercy.

"Please," Jaskier begged, "More, I want more."

"You always do," Geralt murmured, continuing to fuck him at the same pace, "And you always enjoy my withholding."

"Fuck you."

"Someday, perhaps," Geralt chuckled, "But I doubt you'd enjoy it as much."

When he opened his eyes, Jaskier was glaring up at him, face pink and lips cherry red. Geralt laughed louder.

"You're adorable, bard."

"You're a tyrant," Jaskier countered.

"You love it."

Jaskier reached out to smack him, but Geralt caught his hands and pinned them down, his broad grip easily catching Jaskier's deliberately pathetic attempts at an attack. He shoved his hips forward, driving deep. Jaskier's mouth opened wide, the bed squeaking below them.

"Is this what you wanted?"

Jaskier drew breath to respond, but Geralt continued to move, fucking him harder now, so hard that skin slapped and the wall began to be dented by the rocking of wooden bedposts. Jaskier arched up off the bed, chin tilted towards the ceiling, his fingers flexing where Geralt had him held down.

"Ah, ah, f- fuck, Geralt, fuck- too much, too-"

"You asked for it," Geralt reminded him darkly, as though he was without mercy, as though Jaskier was a poor damsel pinned beneath a heartless warlord. He knew that Jaskier got off whenever they did this, and he knew how to tell the difference between genuine distress and flushed, hollow protests.

He kept going until he came inside the shivering poet, Jaskier stripped of his petulant ego, left utterly bare.

***

Later, they lay together, Jaskier curled against him, sleeping happily.

Geralt stared at the ceiling. Fucking was a brief diversion from his memories, from his wandering meditation. He thought of other times he had been on his back, the chemicals which had transformed him into the man he was today. He was grateful for it. Happy to be male. But often he resented Jaskier's closeness to him, resented that he had a secret when he was with a lover. Without one, without human interaction, he was just a killer. He was an animal, a vicious predator, a monosyllabic brute who spoke only to his horse. Horses didn't give a fuck about gender. Roach didn't care that his past took a different form to his present.

He tried to figure out if it was shame, or whether it was just a preoccupation. When he was knee-deep in corpses and monster entrails, slippery and red from toe to pale head, these thoughts did not occur to him. When he walked down a street, unrecognised and nameless, he was without the weight of a complicated history. Never did he think, _Would he still love me if he knew?_

He manoeuvred himself out from beneath Jaskier, walking naked to his clothes, dressing in silence. He gave the boy one last glance before he departed, the night welcoming him like an old friend.

The life of a witcher was destined to be fraught.

His, particularly.


	2. Chapter 2

Thea was a simple villager.

She was by no means a simple woman, her soul containing boundless depths and hidden truths, but her life was practical and modest. Every day began early and with punctuality, baskets woven to carry fruits and grain. She worked the fields, tiredness settling into her bones even at her tender age, an adult woman who felt that she was already elderly. She saw her beauty fading, watched herself becoming harder and tougher in the mirror, saw the excitement of youth growing duller and duller in her eyes. Sometimes she would sit awake at night, braiding her hair before a mirror, laying it delicately over her bare shoulder and thinking of a missing lover’s touch. It was rare that she allowed herself to be tender, to be soft and feminine.

Thea’s life was hard.

Their village was small, but her family was large. Her father was long dead, her mother a fierce and grumpy fighter, fields worked and axes sharpened in preparation for the soldiers who would surely come someday. She was the matriarch, the protector, the wise counsel, and the punisher. Thea worked to make her proud, and to avoid her cruelty. Aside from her mother, Thea lived with five sisters and two brothers; the boys had long been ill, confined indoors where they tended to housekeeping, chores, and cooking. Thea found that she enjoyed this life, enjoyed the luxuries of a female-dominant village, where she would otherwise have been declared a wench and a whore, ripe for the taking. She knew what happened to pretty women in times of war. She hated her mother, but loved her too, because she knew what her mother did to protect them.

Still, she was lonely.

The village was too small for her to find a partner. All of the men were paired off already, and some of them preferred the company of men themselves. She had considered the women, tried to find comfort in their bodies as she might a man, but couldn’t feel the same way about them as they often did about her. She could not leave the safety of this place, could not venture out in search of a male lover. She recognised the foolishness of that idea, though she dreamed about it. She dreamed about a brave knight, a proud man who would work the fields with her, retire to spend his life with her, who would fill her with his seed and give her children. He always looked different, in her mind. Sometimes he was human, hazel-skinned and brown-eyed. Other times, he was an elf, fair-haired and slender, voice deep and resonant as it emerged from his full lips. Occasionally, she would imagine a noble dwarf who had left his clan in search of spiritual enlightenment, would imagine how strong hands might feel as they encouraged her pleasure. She had a hunger for it, for all kinds of men. Gods, even if she couldn’t build a life with someone, she needed the relief of just _one night._ She was a woman, after all. And she had needs.

She had given up hope. That was, until today.

The bandits came with faces covered by cloth, weapons crude but effective. The assault long expected. Thea and her sisters faced them violently, prepared for this day by years of cruel training by their mother. They landed more blows than they took, and the bandits—weak from starvation and shocked that their female victims resisted—quickly fell back. Thea and her sisters were not to be deterred however, knew that the scoundrels would just return for another try if they were allowed to sneak off. And they wouldn’t just steal.

“Fucken’ shit, enough!” The gurgled cry came from a grey-haired bandit, the front of his bandana wet with blood. Thea’s mother swung her axe into the side of his head, where it embedded itself in his skull, a sharp _crack_ slicing through the air. His eyes seemed to tremble, rolling back in his head before she tugged it out, swinging her arm back and sending his body limply sprawling. His comrades watched in horror as their leader was defeated, and the sisters used this opportunity to attack. Thea’s arm arched in a smooth, underarm motion, blade glinting as it moved through the air. Her sword landed between the man’s legs and kept going, cutting up into his torso, severing the very genitals he would have used to rape them, given the opportunity. He screamed and dropped his weapon, but Thea’s sister had already stabbed a knife through his heart.

They made short work of the others, all of whom were snivelling messes by the end.

One of Thea’s sisters went inside, to have the brothers tend to her wounds. Thea, her mother, and her four sisters hung the bandits’ bodies from a tree in front of their property, which sat at the head of the village. It was a hideous display, one that Thea privately despised, but she knew that it was necessary. Further bandits would know this to be a warning, would at least delay before attacking. To sow fear in the hearts of your enemies was to win before the fight even began.

Thea eventually stood back to admire their grim handiwork, panting for air. The bodies had been heavy, despite how underfed they were. She heard the crunch of a footstep, a shifting of rocks, and noticed a movement from the corner of her eye. She spun around, sword held out, pointed at the man who was approaching. He held his hands up in surrender, but his face was calm. Thea’s sisters and mother pointed their weapons too, but he remained relaxed.

“Not here to hurt anyone,” he said in a gentle tone, “Stopping by for supplies, if you have any.”

His voice was gravelly, and despite herself, Thea felt a swell of desire in her gut. He wasn’t dressed like a bandit, or a soldier. He had sweeping, beautiful white hair, and the vivid yellow eyes of…

“A witcher,” Thea’s mother said curtly.

“Yes,” the man replied, still calm, “Name’s Geralt.”

“We’ve no monsters here, Geralt.”

“I can see that. Not here for a job, just passing through. Need supplies. Need food, milk, some herbs… And a night of rest, if you’ll grant me that.” He craned his neck upward somewhat, eyes flitting toward the hanging bodies. The corners of his mouth quirked into an amused smile. “You made short work of those bastards. Good job.”

Thea’s mother hesitated. That was not a common sight, and the man seemed to notice, seemed to understand her war-hardened soul. Something told Thea that Geralt was used to war, used to witnessing how it changed folk.

“I am not here to hurt you,” he said slowly, “Or anybody else in this village. I just want supplies.” He paused. “What’s your name?”

Thea looked over at her mother, and the woman looked back, wrinkle-lined eyes narrowed in suspicion, mouth set in a stiff line.

“…Reena.” She lowered her weapon. “You may stay here for one night, and one night only. Do you have goods to trade?”

“I do.”

“You will surrender your weapons to me.”

He nodded placidly. “Certainly.”

***

He stayed for many more nights than just one.

The fierce old Reena was impressed by him, enjoyed his work ethic and his lack of overt enthusiasm, liked the fact that he kept his mouth shut and laboured without complaint. He slept less than normal humans, and though he ate more, he made up for it by doing the work of three men. When he did sleep, it was on a bed of straw in the stables, as Reena did not trust him to be any closer to her villagers. He seemed content with this, which was another thing that pleased the town's leader.

Thea was driven mad by him.

She would see him bathing by the river, clothes abandoned in a pile on the bank, scar-butchered body muscular in ways she had never witnessed before. He would wash his magnificent hair and tip his head backward, face turning towards the sun, lips parted and eyes closed. He would draw his fingers through pale strands, exhaling heavily, as though being clean was tantamount to ecstasy. It was erotic, to see him working and washing, just to see him move with such deliberate slowness and purpose. She yearned for him, for his touch and his power, to feel that power inside her, thrusting into her warmth. She knew that witchers were barren, knew that she could expect no children from him, but was determined to have him regardless. She knew her mother would not approve... But that almost made it more desirable.

She wondered where he had come from, wondered about so many things. But she knew she couldn't have a proper life with him, knew that any affair must be fleeting. She crushed down the desire to learn more. It didn't concern her.

All she wanted was one night.

***

Finally, she was pushed to act. Geralt announced, after two seasons had come and gone, that he would be departing. The life of a witcher was not to be lived in one place. Despite knowing this, Thea was distraught. Suddenly, her deadline had arrived. She knew that she had to proposition him now, or not at all.

The moon was dim and the night was heavy, all the villagers deeply asleep after joyous celebrations to mark the witcher's final day in their town. Thea, wearing only a simple dress, stepped from her bed. Her heart was hammering hard in her chest, and stepping foot outside her house with one scant layer of fabric against her naked body made her quake, made her shiver in anticipation of what would come next. She closed her door quietly and carefully, praying that the witcher would say yes, praying that he would touch her. She had brushed out her hair and washed her face, and she felt as lovely as she ever had. Daring to feel beautiful was a dangerous thing, in this life. A beautiful woman would be targeted more than a plain one.

She made her way quickly out to the stable, which sat apart from the houses. Geralt lay on his back atop a mound of straw, hands folded behind his head. He was looking up into the middle distance, magnificent eyes searching for something that Thea could not see. He wore a loose white shirt and simple pants, and yet the modest ensemble did nothing to detract from his godlike form. She was wet just looking at him, spellbound by the possibility that sat before her. Her pulse was thrumming hotly in her ears, rushing blood making it difficult to hear herself think. She knew that her face must be flushed, her cheeks warmed by fear and anticipation.

Thea came to stand before the witcher, every inch of her alive with the knowledge that she intended to surrender herself to a man she barely knew. They had spoken only a few times while he had been here, and she knew that he was a murderer by trade; he was a dangerous creature, a man she should not trust. She felt scared to be doing this, but the terror spurred her onward despite itself. He looked at her, gaze moving from the darkness to her face, first, and then to her body. He could tell that she was nude beneath the dress.

"Do you..."

The words stuck in her throat, all of her planning crumbling beneath the weight of this very real situation. He continued to watch her, face revealing nothing.

"Do you... Would you like to...?"

Still, he did not reply. She tried again, voice quivering.

"I think you're... magnificent, and... if you're interested, I would... Before you go, I'd like it if we might..."

He stood from the straw. Thea resisted the urge to step away from him, a lifetime of fear hammered into her, a distrust of men made instinct. He strode slowly towards her, expression indiscernible. A few steps from her, he stopped, as though giving her one last chance to back out.

"You don't know me," he said eventually, voice soft but sombre, "My past isn't some romantic novel. I've done things that would terrify you. I'm not your hero."

She swallowed hard, the hollow of her throat straining. She took the straps of her dress in hand, wrists trembling as she slid the flimsy garment down her shoulders, letting it fall to the ground. The night air settled against her bared body, moonlight brightening the shine of her slickness, where her arousal had thickly painted the front of her cunt and the insides of her thighs. His gaze travelled downwards. She was almost dizzy with fear, but still, she persisted.

"I don't want a hero," she insisted, the words only partly a lie, "I don't need to know who you are. Or what you are. I just need you to fuck me."

He smirked. "You're too young to know what you need."

She blushed hotter, embarrassed but aroused by his dismissal, his condescension. She was treated as a warrior in her village, as a fierce fighter; given the burden of responsibility, forced into this life by her mother and the war. She liked that Geralt saw her as a young girl, saw her as an upstart with petulant demands. She wanted that. She wanted to be imposed upon, wanted to be taught to submit in the most intimate way. She wanted to be like any other village lassie throwing herself into the frightening universe of new experiences, wanted to be beneath the body of someone who was entirely in control.

He stepped closer to her, breathing calmly where she was almost panting, chest rising and falling as she attempted to remain calm. He reached out and laid a hand on her shoulder, palm settling against the tender curve where her neck began. His expression seemed to soften, eyes crinkling with a kindness she hadn't expected.

"Truthfully... you are magnificent, Thea. Far more magnificent than I." His hand migrated suddenly downward, calloused pads moving across her collarbone. "Too young to know the world as I know it. Your beauty is untarnished."

"I'm- I'm not that young."

"I'm old enough to be your father. Old enough to be his father, too."

She exhaled heavily when he stroked the side of her breast, thumb brushing the hardened bud of her nipple.

"But if you really want this, I can give it to you. I won't hurt you, or burden you with a child, that much I can guarantee. I also can't offer you love... but I can give offer this."

He reached down further, and though she could've predicted it, she was still shocked when his thick fingers slid inside her, the intrusion made slippery by her arousal. She seemed to buckle in place, shoulders hunching down incrementally, pressing a hand against her lips to keep from crying out.

"Is this what you really want?" He murmured the words, pressing close to her, fully clothed where she was naked and vulnerable. "Do you want me to fuck you tonight?"

Wordlessly, she nodded, hand still covering her mouth. She didn't trust herself to speak, didn't trust herself to commit to this aloud.

"You can say no whenever you want," he told her, "and I will stop. Do you understand?"

She nodded again.

He pulled his fingers from her cunt, bent down and picked up her dress. Then he took her forearm and pulled her gently, but insistently, inside the stables. His horse wasn't there, and at the moment, neither was any other creature. It was the two of them alone, and though she wanted this, she was so aware of their isolation. This felt like it wasn't allowed, like she was doing something dirty behind her mother's back-- which, of course, she was. She just didn't expect it to feel this good, or this daunting. Like any virgin, she was frightened as passionately as she was excited.

He led her to the corner of the stables that he had kept clean. Discarded her dress on the straw.

"Put your hands against the wall."

She did as she was told, dizzy from the way he was speaking to her, the fact that this was actually happening. Wood was stiff and unyielding against her hands, fingers aching as she clutched desperately at the slats embedded into the walls. He positioned himself behind her, and then she heard the hush of fabric being untied, the soft thud of trousers falling to the ground. Something poked against her, something thicker than fingers. He placed a broad hand on her hip and pressed a thumb into the small of her back, encouraging her to bend as he wished. She arched, and the tip of him slid down to press against her wet cunt.

"Are you sure?"

She felt a swell of warmth in her chest, thankful that he cared to ask.

"Yes," she breathed, "Yes, please. Put it inside me. I want it."

He started to push into her. She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to breathe steadily, but failed. There was a moment of resistance, the tightness of a virgin's cunt.

"Let me know if it hurts," he instructed her.

"It's just- It's just uncomfortable."

"That's normal. Tell me if it gets worse."

He continued to shift forward. Overwhelmed at the sensation, she lowered her face and squeezed her eyes shut. Then, suddenly, he was inside. Inches of flesh were pushing into her, filling her up, sliding so perfectly into the fleshy channel of her body. She made a sound she didn't recognise, couldn't have ever imagined such a pitiful whimper falling from her mouth. He withdrew slowly, then pushed forward again, equally as patiently. She had seen people fucking in the past, had seen how men pushed women down and forced themselves inside, no matter the wailing protests of their wives or girlfriends. She knew that Geralt could be ruining her right now, could be taking advantage of her inexperience. He could be cruel. The knowledge that he wasn't, but that he _could_ , made this even more arousing. This quiet destruction came with the inherent threat of unmanifested violence.

That turned her on.

"Mm," Geralt hummed, "You feel good."

"R- Really?"

"Mmm."

"You're a- You're a man of few words."

He chuckled, briefly kissing her neck. "Do you want me to move, now?"

"I- Yes, please. Yes."

He hugged her from behind, arms wrapping tight around her body. He began to gyrate his hips, swivelling them to grind his cock deep inside her, sparking sensations that she had never felt before. She imagined what this would look like, should one of her fellow villagers rise from their bed to investigate distant sounds of whimpering. She imagined someone seeing her like this, seeing her being fucked, her naked body blocked almost entirely from view by the mountain of a man who was doing this to her. She felt so small, like a girl, like the innocent virgin she had never gotten to properly be. With every inward thrust, her breasts bounced.

"Put- Put your hand- Can you put your hand over my mouth?"

He paused, motions temporarily halting. "If you want me to stop, you need to be able to tell me."

"I'll struggle," she panted, "You'll know if I want you to stop. But I want- I want to feel dominated, I want... Please, _ah,_ please hold me like that. Tell me- Tell me to be quiet."

Seeming to accept that explanation, perhaps understanding why she wanted this, he reached up to cover the lower half of her face. His palm pressed hard against her lips. She felt the mounting wave of arousal, building inside her all this time, swell to an unimaginable intensity. He fucked her a little harder, her cunt squelching now as his cock moved in, out, in, out. His length was glistening from her juices.

"Shh, stay quiet," he hushed her, speaking precisely the words she had prayed for, "Don't want someone to overhear, do you?"

She felt that she was going to orgasm, going to lose her mind. This was exactly the fantasy she had desired, and no babe would result from it, no burden she would have to explain to her mother. Thea realised that she had never felt so _good._

She shook her head wordlessly.

"You want someone to see you like this?"

She groaned.

"Dirty girl," he told her, every syllable drawn out into a gravelly purr.

***

He came inside her.

She knew that she couldn't get pregnant from this, but still, the idea turned her on. He thrust into her one last time, grunting as he released deep within her body. He swirled his fingers against her clit, a kindness she'd not expected, encouraging her pleasure as he achieved his. By the end, she was nearly screaming beneath his palm, glad now for the muffling. Her lashes dipped down low, eyes glazed and unfocussed, hours of relentless pounding stripping her bare of any defences. She felt rubbery and limp, ankles and knees trembling as she tried to remain upright.

Geralt huffed against her cheek.

For tonight, they had both forgotten about love.


End file.
